


Woman Who Lived in the Outskirts of the Woods

by Ranchy_McRanch



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranchy_McRanch/pseuds/Ranchy_McRanch
Summary: (note: this story is discontinued for the time being and may not be updated. From the very beginning, this was meant to be a writing exercise for a style I was trying out. This is mostly a space to share it)Recently separated from her husband, Eleanor moves to a small cabin on the outskirts of the woods. All Eleanor wants is to find a space to hide from the shame of her failed marriage. Instead, she discovers that the cabin is not all that it seems. After all, the woods has always been there.





	Woman Who Lived in the Outskirts of the Woods

It was a cold autumn afternoon when my husband decided that I must leave.

No surprise there. His trysts had no intention of being discreet and he spoke of his expeditions like war trophies and trinkets from war. I lay him on bed, half dead from the drink, and he relayed to me every minute detail of his conquest.

“Should’ve seen her,” he snarled. “How romantic she was, how willing she was to give herself to me.”

I listened to him, as all wives should, and dug into muscle to release tension, no doubt accumulated from the mischiefs of last night. Our marriage may be defunct but nonetheless, we were married in name. He droned without shame and without care, all while grasping onto the cross which hung around his neck. His shirt was soaked from sweat and alcohol so I took it off to wash them later.

Occasionally, I would chime in in the midst of his soliloquy. 

“Ought to feel ashamed of yourself,” I murmured.

He grunted in response.

In my heart, I knew I had to feel some twinge of hurt that my husband but it hardly mattered to me; any anger roused was simply a case of wounded ego. I have never loved him. I simply married him because he was convenient and because the church deemed him fit and because my father liked him. There was no reason not to. He was handsome and he was rich. We would bear beautiful children and carry out our duties as man and woman. Love was not in the picture. Obligation was.

Even as he slowly drifted into oblivion, his brow remained furrowed in anger. Perhaps he told me those stories in some futile attempt to rile me into some response. No blame there. There was a time when he must have truly loved me. When he stumbled on his way to hand me flowers, boyish and impish grin on his face as he gave me kind and alluring words, swearing to marry me but I would give a non-committal nod in response. Even when I did marry him, I rarely let him into my bed.

“Please, just this once,” he would beg.

“Only to try for a child,” I would always respond.

When we discovered I was pregnant, we held together in ecstatic affection and for a moment, we looked like the picturesque couple that always premiered on the cover of romantic novels only educated and rich city women read. That did not last long and eventually, I miscarried. We never tried again. I never let him into bed and he gave up.

Now, I stood in front of a house with a young man of 20 who was to show me around. I acknowledge that my husband was generous enough to lend me money to live in a house rather than throw me onto the streets but it was old, dingy and the rustle in the air seemed to deliver hymns from previous centuries. I would say it was a fixer-upper, if I were in polite company. The house was riddled with decor and paraphernalia from my great-grandmother’s time or at least, looked like it. (I saw the engravings on the back of a painting of a dog and I discerned that the portrait was painted a mere 10 years ago.) The curtains seemed to be in constant battle with the walls and with every gentle breeze, leapt at the opportunity of liberty. The tip of the roof was broken and hung like it was ashamed.

As I took in the house, I noticed a portrait of a young woman that seemed to be the previous owner’s paramour or muse. She was painted delicately but her eyes were cold and brutal, meeting any onlooker’s eyes with contempt and superiority. Her red dress, cut low, showing off a ludicrous amount of cleavage and accentuating the seductive curve of her hips, gleamed unabashedly in the midday sun. Her smile was beckoning and defensive at the same time, the slight bite of the lips outlining her clear intentions. I figured she was one of the women in the cities who spoke with haughty and harsh contempt and talked with her lady friends about the theatre and romance. Their loud whispers revealed their dreams of running off with a man in a distant land. They were completely unlike me, the girl who lived in the farmlands, resigned since girlhood to obligation and who spoke in a matronly murmur. 

And unlike me, their sexuality refused to be concealed. Their legs were spread like open doors, a welcome greeting to anyone who fancied or considered a look at what was between. In their audacity, they ceased to be women and became succubi, inviting the gaze of any man…

As well as my own, my fascination was not like theirs but superficially, it seemed to be. My jaw was slightly unhinged at the insolent display and my hands shook with some indignation.

The boy coughed into his hand and spoke to me. I paid him little attention as he spoke.

“House is a bit old but it’s got the sturdiest walls in the plaza,” he grumbled in a husky tone.

With a nod, I slightly pulled the suffragette curtains and found slight cracks in the wall. The boy gave some half-hearted excuse about appearance, which I did not care for.

“What do you think of the house?” he grunted, one foot already pointed towards the door. It was hardly a question, more a statement.

It hardly mattered. It was not my choice.

“It’s alright.” 

“It’ll be 50 pound.” That was a lie or a scam. He told my husband it would be 25 pound but again, it hardly mattered. It was not any of my concern. Money was a man’s job. I simply passed him the money.

“Alright then. Thank you.”

The door slammed shut behind him.


End file.
